Perhaps we're not so dead as we thought.

After sitting there playing the wonderful song about a thousand times in a row, I believe we have finally come to be a musical power, a force uncontained. I believe we are fully ready...I can hear Alex constantly insisting on our talent show dominance. I've been over here since after school Friday, think of nothing but this song, perhaps slacking off for long periods of time, but nevertheless, my brain is in these notes, my thoughts are in my voice screaming into that microphone decorated with a black ribbon and Rosie's bracelet, surrounded by a thin veil of the unused yellow duct tape from the DI competition. Everywhere I step there is rubber or metal, everything smells like machine or burning or oil or something to that effect, the smell of mechanization, the scent of our music, I suppose. It's invigorating, actually.

And after so much hard work, there is still so much to go wrong. Tyler goes to Georgia tomorrow, what if he becomes stuck there? What if I cannot pull off a prerecorded bass track before the time? My amp permanently shorted out today, so we're taking the Marshall...supposing, in getting it, we take too long and show up too late? We have up to 4:40 to show up, which means we must be gods in our speed, o Hermes, I invoke ye. Whatifwhatifwhatif...I think too much. Chances are things are going to go off without too much of a hitch and we either fail to get in or go for the glory. Sort of scared, I've too much confidence that we're going to make it...I have a lot of faith in this song, I always have. And now...

God, preserve me. I have so much on my mind.

Yesterday my dad came over, I decided to dump the woes of my agony at our finding Tyler inept. That was about the point I started screaming every obscenity I have ever known for the entire world. At the top of my lungs, with Alex and Tyler and my dad standing close at hand laughing. And after, so did I. And then, I foolishly accepted a shot of chocolate liquer and passed out drunk at about 11 last night. No alcohol tolerance. But that's besides the point. I was screaming as loud as I could, exactly the words no one wants to hear, and I have never ever felt better.

And this weekend, I have been more tired than I have ever been in my entire life. So much work...so much, and for what? To win? I don't think that's what I've been after all this time. I think it was all just to prove that I could do it, to get up on stage and stare down a hard-ass crowd. To prove myself. To prove to even myself that I can do it. And winning is simply an extremely necessary byproduct. To feel that adrenaline rush. To take in the crowd and make them mine. Basically, to feel that selfish and piggish desire that I'm better than everyone else because I have a band and I wrote a song and I sing and play guitar, not the best, but shit you can't do it.

And that's what I feel like right now. Everything else is forgotten. Were you to call me right now, anything you would say would be answered by a line from My Solution. "Hello, Josh?""BANG MY HEAD AGAINST THE STONE COLD FLOOR,""What?""Asylum was the answer,""What the hell are you talking about?""That I break free from this cage,"

Someone help me. Heheh, a pleasureful pain.

Nitokris nitokris. I dunno.

We're finished...

How many else have changed because of me?

And if so, for better or worse? And if for worse...

How?

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones. So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it is a grevious fault, and greviously hath Caesar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest (For Brutus is an honorable man, so are they all, all honorable men) come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me. But Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome whose ransoms did the general coffers fill. Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice offered him a kingly crown, which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious and sure he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, but here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, without cause. What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts and men have lost their reason! Bear with me, my heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause 'til it come back to me.

Now, if I can do this in seventh period.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones. So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it is a grevious fault, and greviously hath Caesar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, (for Brutus is an honorable man, so are they all, all honorable men) come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me. But Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought man prisoners home to Rome whose ransoms did the general coffers fill. Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept. Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, and Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that at the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious and sure he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, but here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, without cause. What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts and men have lost their reason! Bear with me, my heart is in that coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause 'til it come back to me.

Just practicing, not obsessed over it. Wish me luck.

"Vague thoughts torture my head," said Sakis...right now he is correct.

The song Between Times has come back for me again, and now the words are getting to me, now that I understand them; after, of course, reading them on a website, darklyrics.com, which includes the wonderful band Bal-Sagoth, with wonderful titles such as In The Raven Haunted Forests Of Darkmier Where The Sun Does Not Shine And The Trees Eternally Choke The Light or something to that effect, times every song on their album. But that is besides the point.

"The drums of time have stopped, the ecstatic quietude," and I feel it, this quietude that drove me to a strange feeling this summer, and over Leigh Anne this year, it is the force, the demon, upon my shoulders that tells me to keep fighting and to make things so much worse than they are. It is a strange fate for one that could want so much from people and, in the end, with his demon, leave little to be desired.

This quiet hasn't yet settled back in, but with enough time it will. It doesn't readily trouble me as of yet; rather, I feel its fingers and feel the breath of its whispers. It never hurts me, only it works on me until I forget who I am.

But mostly, I feel it because I see its poison working its way out of me and on to those around me as repercussions of my actions. Scorn, mostly, well deserved, but scorn nonetheless. To whom it may concern:

Whether or not your actions are deserved of my contempt are unbeknownst to me, simply I am the messenger of voices I have held back far too long, voices that I believe to be true, and not voices of my own conception, these are other people I have held back again and again. The conflict has dissolved to loyalties now, truly; there can be no middle ground for you and I, make well known this, without someone else's dissention. Be aware that there was a reason for the things I have done, and a reason for why I keep you away now.

I have come to a point in life where there is a parting of paths, "now that there is no good escape", the paths have forked, and now I sit at the crossing of the roads and wonder as to which I shall take now. And perhaps, to go back, and see how far I have come...or perhaps, not to go at all, as it seems to me that the agony is upon everyone else and not myself at this point...although the wolves stalk at the sun sets...or rather, I cannot stay in one place too long and be safe.

Over anything, I wish I could be the totally uncomplicated me, not this romantic prodigy, shaped by society and its nuances and projections of love, love, that tepid desire, oh greatest and most destructive creation of man, the want of other humans, that which finally did bring us out from shadow, the essence of love.

Love is actually not a human invention...the concepts behind it are, but as for the emotion, a product of (creation? evolution?) existence. And, sadly and sorrowfully, and especially for me, who would resist it as of now, it is inevitable.

And thus the sun sets on another age and my understanding of the nature of life goes blurry again, a wheel of color, and I, to focus on one color and see what it may bring, be it love, be it conflict with the world, be it conflict at home, be it the same color as before, and the story as of now continues, the neverending chronicles of a man stricken with nameless emotions that interferes with all that he does...or perhaps, a modified version of that tale, where he has control of his existence.

Sorry for all the symbolism, somehow it tends to well up in periods of intense thought, as I am having now, and later, when I read through all of this, I can at least make a bit of sense out of it.

Blurry, love, struggle, it all comes around.

Again, that is.

The house is deathly quiet.

Again, and since the end of Sunday, the house has died early and was born the next day early, it is woken by light every morning now. Even the clouds are lit with the early sun. It's as if the entire world has changed.

But now as I have turned off my amp for the fifth time, I have unhooked the mic and taken it down, it being ready for the session tomorrow, the one that may decide my future, I can't help but hearing that definitively speaking silence, its slow and subterfuged voice calling out across the night and the overcast sky, across my deadbox room, into my brain, and there it pounds its strange drums and chants its strange tune and tells me now to write about it and compose a ballad for its continued life, and it says that after all is said and done, and the age of existence is over, he will reign above all, silence who is golden shall have his crown when the aeon of time is up.

It was this silence that motivated me to write this post. I stood from my bed, reading as I have the past few nights, and came to the bathroom, looking into the great mirror there for the first time in, it seems, a long time. Where hence has this face come from? The only thing that has remained the same of this aged face are the eyes that still call out even to me. They have stayed forever as a haunting testament to my person, that ever shall all know that once and before I am Josh and shall ever be. But this face...

The face that glimpsed this same mirror ten years ago and knew, "I am me," and thought none the different. The face that, only years later, would, tear-strewn, look into this same mirror as his most beloved pet died, as his aunt was pronounced dead in a hospital, and that he was subjugated to stay at home for the funeral, the same mirror and the same face that said, "Your parents are not each other's any longer", the same face that, upon a beach miles away, had sun-burnedly grinned into a sunset and drew hearts into sand with a girl that he no longer recalls, and three years later, to do the same, the same boy who had walked the streets of Nashville, bemused with the life of the city at night, the same face that, sitting on his grandmother's porch with his best friend, had screamed and cried out for Ané, for something, to avenge his deepest heart's betrayal, the same heart that was betrayed by his father and gave forth the same cry, the same heart you have seen now. The same face that has cried, has laughed, has sighed and fallen to musing, has raised its eyebrows in shock, and has given everyone anything it could.

And today, there was the face in that same mirror again, the mirror where all of this had started, and there I was as before. "I am me," it had said, "but I am more than that, as well. I am myself, and I am my friends, I am my lovers, I am my shadow, I am my music, I am everything that surrounds me, and still, and above all of this, I am me."

And somehow, despite the strange, long-haired ghost in that mirror, the pale-faced, sunken-eyed boy that stood and stared back answered, "And I am you, as well," and had smiled despite his terror at being insane, he did not care, the mirror smiled and he smiled back, and his mind had spoken to him and he had answered as if it were common, content with the answer, and had fallen silent. If there was one thing I have ever learned it is it:

the face above is as much as the face beneath

The face of my life is here as well as within. As if by magic, I am something else again.

But still I am me.

Never mind that last post. I got the answer, albeit vague. Although I don't think that has anything to do with the general outcome of this situation.

Time to make a quick long post. The talent show is coming up on the twenty-first, as if I haven't made mention of it about a thousand times already. Tryouts are on Monday...with, quite possibly, the biggest cramming session in music we've ever had this weekend. Especially Friday, I'm going to see if I can somehow get out of it Saturday and go to my dad's...he was sort of upset last night when I told him I might be staying here for the weekend. It's terrible to have to be so torn over one weekend's decision, when after this I have all of my weekends freed. Now to decide where my loyalties lie...over a Coke, perhaps? Definitely.

And I still haven't had any sleep all week. It's because of the dreams, not horrifying to any degree, just constant dreaming every single night. Perhaps inhibited by the phone? For the past few nights, since Sunday, in fact, my nights have been plagued with these dancing apparitions, and every time I remember waking up and thinking about them, but soon falling back asleep and forgetting their purpose entirely. At first I thought it was the Cokes, drinking them and going to sleep straight away afterwards, but since I have come to find, as of last night, that they are simply there, perhaps thoughts waiting to be dissembled in my head, perhaps days waiting to be repeated. It's been a long time since I've been off of the phone this long...about six or so months. In fact, I slept just fine when it was with me, and now, sans plastic wedged in my ear, one would think au contraire, but I suppose now.

And I'm already having an allergic reaction to this new acne medicine I'm on. It's a supposedly "less stomach irritants" form of the other pill, Minocycline, but this new stuff, Doryx, is causing even worse pain than the Minocycline, and I'm even eating something substantial with this pill, like I was supposed to and didn't on Mino. Even when I was on Mino and ate, it still got to me, which is why they, extremely quickly, cancelled my perscription.

It looks like a hell of a week.

Let's hope it stays that way and doesn't become hell on earth.

What do you mean, other girls, in reference to Rosie?

O yeah, that's the one. Thx.

Okie, and thanks again. I think we've got him, as long as he'll come to practices this weekend.

Yes, it was a little episode, you think I do that stuff everyday?

Well that's not nice.

But....heh....rosietheslut.com, eh?

This weekend is going to trip me.

Eminem.
I told him.
It was not just a little episode.
Rosie is a bitch.

Thanks for posting, whee! It's nice to have some company on here.

Well, what does Tyler know? That we want him, yes, but for the talent show auditions on Monday? How'd he find out?

And second...heheheheh. Ok, so I had a little episode on the bus whereafter I was given a little slip of paper by a kid which read "Mental Help Line, 333-333". Tomorrow, I'm going to threaten to beat him up because I was on the verge of hanging myself and instead I killed my cat, or something like that. It'll be so much fun, I've always hated that kid for some reason. But yes, I started screaming at the top of my lungs at the absolutely TERRIBLE songs on the radio. GOD I HATE NO DOUBT AND WHOEVER THAT OTHER ASSHOLE WAS I FORGOT BUT THEY STILL SUCK.

And as for mentioning that website...haha. It's going to take a lot of explaining.

How'd you enjoy all these wonderfully outrageous and long posts, chock full of teenage hormonal ambition and such? Bet you sat there going "oh god" at the beginning of all of them, because I still sure do.

The end...sort of.

Two more things: Tyler knows and you forgot to mention you freaking out on the bus today that was the funniest thing since www.ROSIETHESLUT.com.

So, joshua Anthony Chandler, it has finally happened. I have finally read all your bloggs, and now I can finally RESPOND! All i have to say is this: Thank you for your insight into the situation of the death of my grandfather and the meanings of my feelings. Also I would like to thank you further for FINALLY writing about le anne (and yes i know i spelled her name wrong). You needed to do it for a long time, and she needs to realize that you still do have strong feelings for her, that you still love her, and that if she would just FUCKING STOP FLIRTING WITH A THOUSAND GUYS that you wouldn't feel so insecure, argue, and FINALLY be able to treat her the way you want to. I would like to firther state that ROSIE a.k.a. Tao-Tao is in fact a bitch, and that if she had not FUCKED with both of your minds you probably would still be together right now, maybe even had reached the graveyard, perhapes? (Yes, I know they both read our blogs; that's why I write this without fear.)

Brittany posted today. Someone stop time for me to cry an ocean of joyous tears.

Well, even with an incomplete set and a song still 20 seconds overtime, Stranglebox is going to try out for the talent show. That would be myself, Alex Blonder, and the unassuming Tyler Schaub, who has no idea that he's in yet. Hahah. We're doing the practice this weekend, lasting from Friday to the end of Saturday, taking the Playstation 2 out of the practice room and locking the door, taking five minutes for a break every hour. And if all goes to plan, that should be a good twelve hours at least. I hope we don't crack under the pressure. We have to teach Tyler the part before Friday, and somehow cut 20 more seconds before the tryouts. Monday, Monday, Monday.

Today was the day of days. Mostly, it started in fifth when I was getting beaten up everywhere, the world was a flurry of blows and shouts of tumultuous laughter. It ended when I fell back into a wall and ripped one of Mr. Adams's posters a bit, with many a witness. Before this, there was a test in the class which I am nearly positive that I did horribly on, plus the fact that I didn't do the homework, sacrificing that for the last few months of lost sleep. But that was the start of it. After this came sixth period, where I found a bit too late of a quiz in the class, but knew for the most part. Moreover, I was becoming tired, and now I have forgotten most of what was said, a summary of a quiz for tomorrow's sixth period.

In seventh, we had yet another quiz I did not study for, only failing to pull an answer for two, one of which was left blank, the other, a drastic, last minute guess, and both answers of which I was unable to find in the book. Then I remember the book test on this book, which is Monday, same as the talent show tryouts, and a report on plants Tuesday, both of which I have failed to start on. And here I am making a BLog post, and after this, I'm going to bed. Surprise that my laziness statistic is going through the roof.

Then, I got to my lessons, where I was waiting outside for the wrong class, I had switched the times of the two and forgotten, much to my chagrin. So I got a shortened lesson on both of them, and did horribly on both of them. But somehow, not in an entirely terrible mood. It was, environmentally, a bad day. My skin jacket, affected, the box called soul, not. A wonderful day, in that respect.

I know tomorrow will be better, the days after always are. That was one out of the past four. And I always get one out of every week as a "bad day", at least one. Plus, I've been wishing on the clock for the past four days at 11:11 for good luck, and although it never does anything, I can always run into some unsuspectingly good luck and attribute it to this clock wishing.

And no philosophic posts tonight, at least for now.

I know you're all so depressed.

To me, it's just another cycle of life, and whatever you can draw from it, you should. If you feel to get close to everyone, then by all means do. That will be a hellacious life, and I can already tell you that some will take it the wrong way, but if you think that is the answer to this short life cycle, then by all means take it.

What do you want to do with your life? If your grandfather's death is telling you this, then there actually must be something there that you're thinking about? A major change? A few smaller ones? I have no idea. The fact is, and for all of what you may draw from this scenario, that you need to live for yourself, and whatever you feel you need to get out of this, do, because, thankfully, it doesn't happen all the time.

But when it does, there's always a lesson to be learned.

Ok, that last post was a little precursor to this one, which you wanted me to write yesterday...I ran out of time this morning.

This is about Leigh Anne, and perhaps I put it off because she didn't like it but it's time to reminisce. I've been thinking about this post all morning, the little nuances I was going to put in it.

My cousin Seth described his last relationship with his girlfriend Brooke, and in many ways it was like mine, in many ways it has ended in the same way. "Do you love me?", and he would cynically reply at the end, "More and more everyday..." and then look up at me as he hung up, roll his eyes, and try to suffocate himself with his own pillow. Somehow, I was the same at the end, perhaps not with the same words, but in the way I started to feel as she broke more towards my friends than me, as Brooke did.

This morning I was putting off waking up, staring at that same cloud strewn sky as the past three days, and suddenly I was intensely bemused, as I was thinking about our amazing but brief relationship that ended in such disaster, and all because of me, this time. But I laughed...laughed for all the good times, for horses that resembled amoeba, for random thoughts, for finding pieces of ourselves in each other that we had never thought we would see, to be more amazed by each other every day, and for all of that to end, for all the dreams and promises to die nearly overnight. I laughed because, after all, I'm just a litte human in the end, and losing this girl, as completely apart from the rest of the world as she is, these losses, this breaking of spirits happens all the time, and as it was caused by me this time, why have I to complain?

But I still remember them all fondly...perhaps a little too fondly, as they creep between my thought and make themselves apparent every once in a while in some process of life. Like doing geometry, for some reason that incubates these thoughts, or for sitting alone, which I have a lot of time to do these days, it helps these thought to permeate the shallower reaches of my ever-going mind.

It feels like it's not over, and I guess in some ways it still isn't, it takes time for everyone to get over these things. The only problem with me, is, I don't think that my thoughts are going to let me go on this one, for a long time. I really don't know what to do but to just let things happen, and if it really does end in us apart, then so long to yesterday.

And strangely, these bittersweet memories permeate again.

Oh, how I miss her already.

josh do you think that my grandfather's death means something? Like maybe i should be motivated to get out and do something with my life before it's to late. Or maybe it means I shouldn't take things or people, rather, for granted. should i try to get close to everyone i know, call all the time, set aside time to spend with everyone? Maybe it means that we should all just take care of our selves. Whatever it means, it could become a revelation for me.

josh, write something about leanne

well jizzosh, oizznce izza gizzain yizzou dizzon't mizzake izzany sizzence.(sizzence looks close to science doesn't it?)

Another strange morning.

It's time to do something I've been putting off, for Brittany's sake, as she has been advocating me to write something like this, despite my best intentions, as much as I try to resist it, I think the time for it has come. I think I think I think. In fact, that's all I do, which is why I make such amazingly elongated posts.

Tidings, all, and a Bon Mardi Gras, tout le monde.

Today was a great day, and it was all because of outside. The climate was simply stupefying, and it cleared up a lot of accumulated woe over the past few days. And it looks like a light rain tonight which should be nice, as long as it clears up by tomorrow.

And, I should be audioblogging starting this Sunday, if all goes to plan. I get my ten dollars allowance, nine of that goes to BLog and I get twelve calls a month at three dollars a month for three months. So I'll be set for a while. Then, with the next three weeks' allowance, I'm saving to buy Jerry's new album, Degradation Trip Volumes One and Two, which features all of the Degradation Trip songs and eight new ones, including Hurts Don't It?, Sidhartha, Pig Charmer, which is about Layne, whose deathday is coming up with Kirt Cobain's this April 5th, and others. It promises to be a great album, and I can hardly wait a month to get it.

To the thing I found fascinating tonight:

I was taking a bath just for the sake of soaking. I was ultimately tired and looking for something relaxing to do to ease my caffeine-induced body, and I happened to come upon the idea of taking a bath. It's been a while, but in I went, turning the water to a flinching degree of heat. I slipped in a sat for a while, then became bored and got out. Then I took the towel to myself.

The towel, that was the thing.

This was a new towel...at least, new to the upstairs shower. The main one is a thick, blue monstrosity, reeking of long-washed out cat urine as they had the gumption to find the towel fallen in the tub and somehow took it as their perogative to piss upon it. Past the ammonitic smell, it is also quite cumbersome and takes quite a long time to dry, so naturally every time it is used, the new towelee takes a goodly amount of time in getting dry, as the towel is already soaking. So, what a surprise to find this towel, one stictched by my parental step-grandmother for my mother ages ago, with half the personalization stitches ripped out by my mother for some reason or another ("MA", it reads).

But I took the towel about me, at first not noticing the difference, and then inhaling slightly...no cat piss. It was an oddity, but I chanced a downward look and found that all-too-familiar half-gone stitch of "MARY".

Another whiff smelled of cologne...what is this, Grey Flannel? That Man? It was my dad's old cologne.

It reminded me of warm summer days where five year old boys would wake up and waste that same day in front of a Nintendo-stricken TV, but nonetheless make the entire day worth it, because he was busy having too much fun to notice the outside. And all the while, his father next to him, only a few feet away, sitting leisurely in a creaking office chair with sunlight illuminating his face from below, pouring in through three windows in the room, and each was open, giving off a scent of tree and grass and sun and wind and sky, and his father was languidly staring at a computer screen, sometimes looking interesting, sometimes laughing at some joke of his son's, or one of his rantings about losing his Nintendo game. Then the evenings came, and the boy would go outside and the summer was suddenly around him everywhere he walked, and it was pure heaven to run in that slighty humidified but sweet air. It was summer, he was young, and the world was something else every single time.

And then, I turned the towel and I smelled the sea.

Sea salt, sand, it was Florida, and the same boy, although he was older now, his face a little bolder, his frame a little taller, and he was laughing with his cousin and sister as he ran into the waves, choking on rushing salt water and still wide-mouthedly howling with mirth. It was sunset, and here the boy found what he thought was love for the first time with a girl he had met there, and they drew hearts in the sand all the way down the beach. Eventually, the girl would leave and, in a trail of hearts, the boy was applauded by all on the quieting beach, cheering and wooping, clapping and general appreciation at the sight of young love, a sign that the whole world was just fine. He would never see the girl again for the rest of his time there, and three years later, when he saw her again, she remembered him with a shy smile and restrained glances, saying little and blushing much, staying near him but keeping her distance, and this time there was only one heart in the sand, hers, a farewell present to the boy, who, knowing this time, would never glimpse the face again.

And as the boy types he cannot remember her face but he can remember that day all too well, the day he figured out that there was something to the idea of love, something fascinating, that while it ends one day, while it is there, it is magic, forbidden and wonderful magic, the sort that actually does inspire men to jump cliffs and float all the way down, to run fire, skip sea, dance sky, slide earth, it moves him to hysteria, and in it he is content, and all around him are somehow not illed by this flagrant show of emotion, but somehow wryly enriched at seeing it; there is love, so powerful a force, so fleeting, but yet it strikes with the fury of colliding worlds and the quickness of cobras made of lightning.

What a strange fate to have had a towel and remember the two best times in my entire life.

It was warm, then.

It was another of those mornings.

I kind of woke up and didn't, I was in "between times", the scattered, minus-human zone between sleeping and wakeness for a long while, floating in sleep and anti-substance, for what seemed like hours. In the morning I was blinking sleep and rubbing watering eyes, and for some reason knew that I had not slept at all last night, for whatever primal human reason I have not stumbled upon. I did not, and in front of this computer I feel as a mouse feigning a bit too much before the wheels of a dump truck.

Another little tap of caffeine at break this morning. It's a shame I have all these excess Cokes, they're giving me an excuse to drink them at any time...which reminds me why I didn't sleep last night. They were calling me with such cute, pert, uppity voices, how could I resist?

I'm trying to stave estranged looks from Brittany at my left, who is busy reading backlogs from Saturday (the Invincible one, the Charlie Brown one first, and pretty soon she'll reach the Hope and Day posts).

All for now.

Well, that settles it. Look at the little icon above, did you click on it? Wasn't that great?

It's only three dollars a month, and seeing as how I make ten a week, I'm going to get it. Quite possibly one of the most ingenuitive designs ever: you call a preset number and it asks you a few questions, and after this, a little beep and some recording time, and your voice is BLog-bound.

The transcript of the above-call: Hello antiphilanthrophists, this is Josh, I was just, uh, trying out the cool little doohickey because it's free and...hey, whatever and...ha hum...don't really know what to say, but this is me to all the people that don't know me and all the people that do: stay cool. Bye bye everybody.

Ok, now off to the present. A shaking day ended in a fine-enough manner. As I had expected, I was quite smacked about the face by Brittany for being a "fucking idiot", and I agreed with her every propulsion of hand and muscle. Overall, however, the bus ride was much more enlightening than the past few weeks of cloudy commune, and seeing the sun and smelling a semblace of spring was uplifting to me. I felt as if I lost another shroud of impertinence while waiting on that ride.

Hope Brittany has something to tell me tomorrow.

The first audioblog post, this was a lot of fun:

audblog audio post

Sorrow and joy, I am both and torn, as well.

I have sorrow today. Sorrow, sorrow, I feel its soft and unbreakable chain tugging a relentless row about my frame once again, and this time Lady Sadness is unceasing, for I have created something that, I think, cannot be undone by any likes which I may ever posess, no matter what anyone says. What has happened, has happened. My sadness is incessant.

I have joy today. Most prominent in my mind: coming into this class from a brutally short break, sitting down extremely tired but nonetheless feeling a tingling of caffeine from an early morning fix, and with much joy, and much to my extreme shock, tells me I won the cover design contest for the school play, and most of the innards of the program. Considering the effort I put into this...my joy at confundling the masses with the greatest fonts ever, "Rage Italic" and "Blackadder ATI (or something to that extent)", comes to no end.

And I am with joy because of the sun...

This morning I woke to voices. It was early, they were in my ear, voices, voices, it was Vietnamese, and I couldn't understand any of it, and suddenly the phone clicked as I had expected, as it does every morning prior, and I happened to see the sky above my pillow-covered head...

(what is that, light?)

I stared at it uncomprehendingly for a minute, and just as suddenly drifted into a fiftul doze littered with haunted thoughts of that very night, the one that stimulated my sorrow. But again, voices (I hung up the phone, it's away from me), voices traversing the hall and through my (opened?) door, I heard my sister and mother talking at about 5:30 and could not help but sit and wonder at it all, what was wrong with this day, besides the fact that life may have permanently changed overnight? I looked outside, I found the answer.

There, the sky was a light and billowing pastel canvas, the blue was a drape of cyan silk about the fleeting cloud-blotched horizon. And there was light, a light that I hadn't seen in days and days, knowing somehow that it will never come back, and knowing otherwise all the same. I could not yet see it, but I felt it, and I felt as if something was a-right with the world again, the gray days of February gone forever, into a spring with light, not the dull gray curtain that ne'er ceased to infect my soul with it bitter dirge of melancholy playing an incessant chord on my mind.

And in spite of everything that had happened last night and before that, for the greatness of the weekend, in which many things were found and resolved in myself, I hung my head and shook it back and forth, half joy and sorrow, throwing my burning tears about the window and the ceil with ragged gasps and sobs, only quiet enough so as to be heard by no one but me, I cried and rocked myself with my arms locked on the window ceil and felt as if I had one wing broken and one wing above all wings, and I sat, waiting to decide whether to risk flying or stay grounded forever. I cried and rocked myself back and forth, the sway a light breeze against my muscles, all taut and burning with long-surpressed anguish and despair, I cried and rocked myself and told myself that many things had been resolved, and that nothing is ever quite over, so long as one does not forget, I cried and rocked myself and made a vow with myself that I would never forget what had happened here with anyone, that I had learned somethings so bizarre and useful, and at such a price, oh what a price I have paid, and slowly dying I surrendered my poisoned soul as it fades to gray...does it sound familiar? No wonder now, why I wrote it, I felt as if there some venom inhibiting my ability to love and live, and suddenly I have found it, it was myself and my discontentment with imperfection...even in this discontent is complete imperfection, it is impossible to strive for perfect in this world. If it ends, it cannot be perfect enough.

I gasped a last time, I swallowed the rest of whatever wanted to inhibit my acting as a composed human, rubbed dry my eyes and walked out the door to the shower, thinking I would never reach such a low again, thinking that I can do better with myself, thinking that I will take control with the advent of last night, somehow, with or without what I had before I began this mad cycle of ups and downs in life. I turned on the water and inhaled the scents of a new morning and sighed long, perhaps theatrically, taking my time and letting the heat entrance me and fascinate my reddening skin, I inhaled the steam and the soap and the dew and the dawn.

And another day began.

An ineffible hunger.

I didn't eat today, and when I began as such, it was as if I was a starved prisoner of war for some years, I could not be filled to capacity. Later, of course, my stomach will discourse upon that matter, but as for now, my appetite is only more whetted with each passing bite.

Today is March the second, and outside lurks a cold, dark abyssia, grinning its orai grin on a mass of powerless souls, such a puissant species, with so little power nonetheless. We are devoured by our insolence, have we no idea that this bitter and unending frost is of our creation? Two-hundred years ago, at this very spot, did the frostbitten winter months ever last this long? Nay, this cold is birthed by the womb of industrialization, a sadly necessary function of the new age of man, the man that does not think and has his machines think for him, the man that has forsaken love and home for his love of the world, to the embrace of nothingness, to that which shall never transcend the bonds of time, he gives himself to wasted causes, to countries, he serves the greater good, which is, of course, no good at all, because it is an idea, because society and government are ideas, and as such are powerless to the quaking gods of existence and time, of space and energy, the creations of man are illusion, and we are dust and shadows.

It is a strange fate to have hold of such power and to be so powerless, in the end. What is after death? Judgment? And what, then, happened to your worldly concerns? Is it not, that they vanished in a puff of smoke? Is that not the glory of death, the end of life, the end of the painful and trying realm of mortality?

The darkness of these endless nights with their lopsided, hellish grins are beginning to consume all of us by the night, as during the day the clouds enveloped not only sky but spirit, it saw so many upon the verge of personal destruction, it saw us a glum and powerless race, a mighty fire cut short in a great rain, only the rain took substance, and still the fire died.

And all of this, just a reflection of the morosity I have seen around me, the sorrow self-imposed by the seasons that have left us to be eaten by carrion death and dismay. I watch it and see the sins of the fathers and mothers imposed on their young, simply by the fact that sin is let to exist in the world, and there is no greater pain than watching that which is ourselves to writhe in torments so much greater than ours. The sins take such wonderful guises and times to take us, but they have. Sin, the black blooded vein that flows staight down our family trees and branches into all of us. For this to go on much longer, as I have seen it.

God help us all.

This is an account of my last night, as told by myself, who would be the greatest source of knowledge on such a subject:

The car ride home was a four year old talking to his mother. My chatter was incessant, the fever of "hurdle-jumping", finally facing a long awaited day of judgment, still burning in my head. On and on about our performance, what we had done, what was truly brilliant, what I had done, every aspect of our victory, our miraculous performance; strangely nothing of the Instant Challenge past "it was impossible but we made it", thus securing my vow of secrecy.

And the ride ran on for what seemed like not long enough, there was still far more to tell about, a thousand thousand wonders not yet embarked upon rolling about my tongue, and I langoured to spit them all out and watch them dance about and to let everyone share my joy at felling the giant. However, considering that I would be zoned for Centennial had I not been cheating the Board, as I will be until the end of this year when they change the state to open-zoning, the ride was ultimately abrupt. A few miles straight down the road and I was home, still talking about "going to state" or "yeah, well the 'TT' on my back means...". I unlocked the door and burst inside, positively throwing myself at my two dogs anxiously awaiting their mother, and were not in the least disappointed at this surprising spasm of attention. After a minute of this, and calming mine and my mother's laughter, I stood up and went to the computer and typed several posts of our victory on the various BLogs to which I am subscribed that were appropriate as for such.

And then it all went down. The facade of energy and motivation for the day, the quick mind, the supple wit, the burning spirit, the mind intuned to one goal, all sank back into the dark places of my mentality and I was a common, fifteen-year-old boy again. Caffeine became a dull and worthless substance, I had just finished a Coke, and even after this and the one before I succumbed to sleep, I was tired. I also gained a massive hunger, as the adrenaline faded into weariness and human need, as the "Id" took over, and I devoured some leftovers in the fridge, possibly faster than I have ever eaten, even in down times after Taekwondo tournaments when I was younger, and once I had believed that those were the most nerve-wracking feats I had ever undertaken.

I talked to my mother for a while as the both of us watched TV, a absolutely lurid show about mortuary school on Discovery or TLC, and remembered a song that I had not quite forgotten that morning, one which stuck in my head as I woke, one that abbated the primal urges to howl in fear and aprrehension, as a caged dog in a place of foul scents. I remembered that I had been singing what I knew of that song to myself and it made me stronger, somehow, a great wall against the deluge of Noah and his ark.

"I remember you...do you remember me too?...'Cuz I would give everything that I own, give you the skin and this flesh and these bones, the sun, the moon, the earth and sky, I never even stopped to wonder why..."

And I had a great desire to find that song and the words and learn it and play it and sing it to myself, because for just a few hours, the song had inspired me to do great things, and not even in physical manifest, but things inside myself that surprised even me. Things that made me sit and the awards ceremony last night and wonder, "How? This isn't like me."

It took two hours, because the lyrics are a bit trite, and the internet is full of scamming fools and false promises and broken things long forgotten. When I did find it I nearly shouted, in fact I believe I did. The song is, of course, called Everything, and the artist, which I somehow knew as I typed the words into the last search box of the night, is Lit. I ran up the stairs and sang to the chordings (which were simple enough for me to pick out in a literal fifteen seconds) until my fretboard fingers began to redden with blood. I put the guitar down and set to reading. Then the world rocked me a hazy blow. I felt the dark circles under my eyes and the emptied will, and, nearly throwing the book down, I slept.

Awake. A small needle pushed its way into my arm. I sprang into wakeness in an instant at my attacker, and again the primal survival urge kicked it, the want to be not eaten in sleep. But still, my vision swam with shadows of juxtaposing dark with dark, and the world was a stream of Stygian night, a devil's soul blackness. And then a sandpaper upon my cheek, now my lips, scratch, scratch it said. I knew what it was, then, I knew, but I had to turn on the light anyway, to sate my curiosity.

Camille sat on my chest with all claws bared, especially happy to have finally received recognition for her prescence. She flitted happily around for a while, and I was annoyed to be forced to content my new visitor, but I was nevertheless, forced. Cats have a strange way of demanding your attention and getting it, no matter what they do. But sleep in us all is stronger than the hand of Prime Movers Unmoved, and darkness overcame once again. This scene repeated itself multitudinously during the starlight hours, but eventually I shrugged her off to the point that her cat lusts of "mememe" died within her, and she curled upon the bed and slept.

I woke this morning to ragged thoughts of "If only..."...

If only I hadn't stopped Rosie from giving me the ring and went on with the skit. Better that than the alternative...which we got...

They died in my head pretty quickly. I felt like a great iron box had fallen on me from a thousand foot tower. I sat inert for a while, and after an hour I had the gumption to sit up and read for a time. I turned the page, the pain in my head subsided, I turned the page, my blurred thoughts refocused, I turned the page, I remembered the triumph over misgiving from the day before, and I was moved to grin, albeit wolfishly, or so I thought to myself. And again and again, a turn, a new sensation, until I was assaulted with the full of my humanity and stood, taking a shaky step away from the bed to the window, awed at the sunstruck horizon, the sun that had not passed my eyes for two weeks.

Later on I would be typing an earlier part of this post and looking outside. There, I saw the ground turn from it's now-common gray shade to illuminated beige and green, crab grass and the sweet, common blades that decorated the scattered pate of the planet, and I rose as if by magic toward the door, I was drifting outside, hoping that the sun would last for just another second, I saw the clouds assaulting her again, threatening to shroud that wonderful lantern of day. I threw the door open and stepped outside.

It was a world of brightness and wonder. Wonder, I wondered at the blurred sun piercing a thin veil of clouds and I was blinded, but I was rejoicing in the coming of the sun, a touch of this galaxy's organic lifeforce once again, the monkey-urges satisfied for a time, and despite the sordid drops of rain, small and wide-spread, smiting my shoulders sporadically, muffled, a pop, and upon my still-duct-taped shoes, plick, plick, the invisible droplets heeding the call of their master, the veiled sky, to attack the hopes of humanity, the faintest and somehow most important need, to see the sun, to see that their hope had not yet died and that the sun had not yet quit a dying age of humanity. I saw it and felt it, and somehow a part of me long dead sprang into being, as, I think, it did to us all.

It was hope.